


I'm Just Saying

by RainbowSprinkleDonuts



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, angsty af, teeeeeny tiny brittana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowSprinkleDonuts/pseuds/RainbowSprinkleDonuts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The missing pieces of Quinn and Santana through the years, because they were supposedly best friends, although it was always much more than that. Because Santana secretly thinks the world of her, these are all the times Santana told Quinn she can do better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Just Saying

**Author's Note:**

> So this is based on a song, obviously. It was bugging me so I had to get it out. Enjoy and I'm sorry if it hurts a little...

I.

 

It’s dusk in the Fabray household. A pink, autumn sky peeks through Quinn’s curtains as she’s sprawled across her also pink bedspread. She’s scribbling away, jotting notes in a notebook, in the company of textbooks and folders for freshman Biology, Physics, Pre-calc, and US History. A giggle erupts from her mouth, that she directs into the phone held loosely against her left ear.

“No, Santana, I’m not going to just give you the answer,” she scolds.

“How about the Biology homework. We’re not even in the same class, that old sandbag won’t know,” the phone whines.

Quinn shakes her head, and firmly replies, “No, S.”

Her legs kick in the air as she lay on her stomach, disturbing the pleats of her Cheerios skirt slightly. She laughs, scribbles, highlights, flicks her hair back, and grinds widely like the archetype teen idol she is undoubtedly on the path to becoming. As she closes one notebook, she shifts the phone to her other hand and holds it in place with her shoulder, in one fluid, well practiced motion.

These 4 hour long phone calls are often how Quinn and Santana spent their weekday evenings, like straight out of an after school special. There is a glass of milk on the nightstand from her mother, and an outfit laid out on her vanity chair across the room. Like clockwork.

“Hey, what do you think about Finn Hudson,” Quinn asks suddenly. The phone line crackles in the silence for a tick, before Santana lets out a whine of indifference.

“He’s kind of doughy,” she states, “But he’s probably going to be quarterback so he’s not completely useless.”

Quinn blushes before disclosing, “Well, I went to the movies with him last night.”

“Finn? Why?”

Quinn rolls her eyes, before realizing Santana can’t see her, and deadpans, “To copy chemistry notes. Why do you think, Santana?”

“Ew, did his Pillsbury Dough Boy hands cop a feel? Dust the flour handprints off your dress before daddy sees,” Santana taunts through the speaker.

“Ha, ha, and no, you know I’m a good, Christian…”

“Prude?”

“Somebody on the squad has to be.”

Santana actually laughs at that one. Quinn takes it as a compliment. The line is quiet again for a while as Quinn flips through pages of cell mitosis.

“Well I’m happy for you, and the bakers dozen you and him will no doubt ferry around town in your minivan,” Santana states. The image draws a chuckle out of Quinn, that echoes in her cavernous room.

“Thanks, but I don’t know about that,” she assures her.

“Good, because you can do so much better than Finn freaking Hudson, Q,” claims Santana, with all the self-assuredness Quinn tries to absorb through the invisible cell phone waves.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime, babe.”

 

II.

 

Santana had seen the glowing letters light up her screen hours earlier. She was family dinner, and was able to glimpse the message before she was chastised to take her phone off the table. She hasn’t forgotten about it, just is actively ignoring it. She has populated her mind with homework, trash tv, a little cyberbullying to ease her stress, but her phone has gone untouched. On her nightstand it sits, still lighting up every 15 minutes or so with the aging text gone unacknowledged.

Finn told them and my dad kicked me out.

She hasn’t spoken to her at all since the scandal broke in the glee club she refuses to acknowledge her involvement in. Neither a congratulations nor a smart insult regarding the thing growing inside of her friend.

The stupid pixels burned into back of her eyelids until at exactly 2:04 AM she sits up, and snatches the infernal device off it’s cherrywood perch. Her fingers hover over the keyboard, but they can’t pick a letter to begin her less than punctual response. Frustrated at her own lack of brain function, she hits the little phone icon in the upper right hand corner and waits as it rings.

“Hello?” comes a groggy voice, followed by the creaks of a body shifting on a mattress.

“I’m sorry, Quinn,” she starts, because its what people usually start with.

“Yeah,” Quinn replies. It’s not much to go on, and Santana hadn’t thought this far into the conversation. Finally, Quinn picks up the verbal slack, “Finn’s mom is letting me stay with them.”

“Okay,” Santana says. She has no further input so she listens to Quinn breathing, labored for some reason, and a sniffle offers an explanation. Santana’s mouth goes dry. This was not her territory, and yet she had been the one to call. What did she expect, really? There was no happy way to spin any of this.

“It’s not really the fact that I’m kicked out, it’s just,” Quinn half-whispers, a muffled sob interrupting her confession. “The way he looked at me, like I wasn’t even his daughter anymore.” A few soft, dainty cries follow. Santana’s brain shorts circuits, and she can only think that of course even Quinn’s sobs are delicate. Her chest feels on fire as she lays there, her phone pressed to her ear, listening to Quinn cry.

“Quinn,” she calls out to her, not recognizing her own voice, “You’ve been nothing but an amazing daughter. They’re the ones that don’t deserve you living in their house.”

It sounds like Quinn pulls herself together a little before choking out, “Yeah?”

“Totally,” Santana confirms, “They’re a shit family, Q. You can do way better than them as far as parents go.”

If she meant it as some lighthearted jab, it certainly didn’t come out that way. The words spill warm from her lips. Quinn’s eventual sigh is stronger than it would have been 30 seconds ago.

“Thanks, S.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The conversation is coming to it’s natural close. A smothered grunt alerts Santana that the baby daddy is sleeping somewhere nearby. Quinn takes the slow intake breath of a goodbye.

“I won’t have your back at school tomorrow,” Santana interjects. It sounds much more asshole-y than in her head, and she instantly regrets it. She’s afraid Quinn might start crying again, what with her all hopped up on hormones.

“I know,” comes the steady reply. “I would have done the same to you.”

That is somehow very reassuring.

She watches her screen fade to black as the call ends and sleep finally comes to her.

 

III.

 

It was painful to watch the soap opera drama unfold in the choir room that day. Puck yelling, Finn’s arms waving, and Quinn standing there, crying and crying. She was just so sad looking Santana almost forgot she was hardly the victim. She must say, it was quite a plot twist. She was shocked at the initial concept of Quinn handing over the key to her chastity belt to the human bread loaf Finn Hudson, but to find out she had actually done the dirty with his best friend was just astounding. She was floored.

The whole spectacle was just one big, juicy, MTV special worthy mess, the tense aftershock of which was now hanging in the room making everybody squirm. Still, Quinn stood there, rooted to the spot of her crucifixion, tears flowing like Niagra Falls. Eventually, she bolted, and it wasn’t long before the gremlin followed her, tail between her stubby legs. Santana just sat in the front row, pinky hooked with Brittany’s, swinging back and forth in the gap between their chairs.

It isn’t until after school, 15 minutes before Cheerio practice, that Santana sees her again. She is sitting in her car, shoulders curled inward in defeat. If her hair wasn’t covering her face, Santana could probably see the tears. It takes a few strides before she’s at the door, wrenching it open and sliding inside the absurdly expensive jalopy.

Quinn is surprised, and her gaping mouth grapples with questions, a few of which are probably along the lines of what are you doing? why are you here? are we friends now? Santana can hardly answer those in her head, let alone provide a verbal reply. So, she starts with another question.

“Where are you going to go?”

Quinn furrows her brow, and shakes her head.

“What do you m-”

“To live, now that Finn wants nothing to do with you.”

The furrowed brow turns into an angry one, and Quinn sets her jaw before shaking her head incredulously.

“Puck offered to let me stay with him,” she reveals.

“Ugh, God, as if it could get worse,” Santana gibes. She gets another venomous glare shot her way.  

Quinn’s words slice through the air as she hisses, “You know, thanks for all of this concern, Santana, it’s touching, really.”

“It’s on the house, Q. Next time it’s going to cost you,” Santana quips, smiling brightly as if they were having a pleasant conversation about coupons or Saturday afternoon bridge.

“Great, now get the hell out of my car,” Quinn growls. She reaches towards the gearshift, as a warning, but Santana intercepts her hand before it can reach the cold plastic.

“Quinn,” she soothes. “What I meant was, I’m sorry it’s Puck’s, okay?” Her thumb runs over Quinn’s knuckles, one by one. Quinn eyes the action and flicks her gaze up to Santana’s face. She searches for authenticity, which she hopes she’s showing her because none of this is fake, and she won’t leave the car until she knows it.

“Thanks, I guess,” Quinn eventually mumbles. She’s considerably calmer, but continues to watch Santana with hazel eyes still glossy from today’s ordeal.

“You can do so much better than Noah Puckerman,” Santana tells her. Quinn nods, but Santana still adds, “I know it. Everyone knows it.”

The words, although whispered, fill the cab of the car. Somewhere, the din of football players bashing into each other breaks their solitude. A freshman passing by in front of them reminds her they were never quite alone.

Quinn makes to say something, but her eyes fall down to her hand, still resting softly in Santana’s.

Quinn has homework, and Santana can’t drop her hand fast enough. In a trail of crimson pleats and a door slam, she’s gone, and off toward the football field, clenching her left hand tightly.

 

IV.

 

Santana spends a total of 13 minutes and 48 seconds outside of Quinn’s house, debating on what she’s going to do when the door opens. She’s standing there dumbly, when the door opens to Mrs. Fabray; prim, proper, and pristine as the day she probably floated out of her mother’s womb.

“Can I help you, sweetie?” she asks, her saccharine smile telling Santana that she’s well aware how long she’s been standing on her porch. If she could slap herself, she would.

“Um, yeah,” Santana manages to blurt out. She extends her left hand, and hands the balloon she’s holding out towards Quinn’s mother. “Can you give this to her?”

The look of distaste the woman gives Santana’s offering is almost comically identical to a face she’s seen Quinn make more times than she can count. Her smile is only barely suppressed when she’s back under the gaze of Mrs. Fabray.

“Why don’t you bring it up to her yourself, honey?” she suggests.

Santana shakes her head curtly, “No thanks, ma’am, I’d rather just give it to you. I’m already late for… something.” Mrs. Fabray raises an eyebrow, but takes the balloon in her manicured hand none the less. She, and the balloon, have disappeared into the house by the time Santana gets to her car at the bottom of the hill the Fabray’s somehow live atop of.

It’s not until later that evening, a little too late for a school night, that she is given any sort of notification that Quinn has received her gift.

“Over the hill, really?” Quinn mocks her over the phone.

Santana adjusts the phone in the crook of her shoulder, hands busy painting her nails, before she explains, “Yeah, well they were out of ‘it’s a whatever’ at the party store, so I picked the next best thing. I mean, you sort of overcame a hill. Pushing a fetus out of your vagina is an accomplishment.”  

Quinn actually laughs, and the honey sweet sound makes Santana grin like an idiot.

“Why didn’t you just come upstairs and give it to me, by the way? You knew I was home,” Quinn prys. Her voice is a little stifled, as if she’s chewing on something.

“Your birth is still a hot button topic in Lima. I can’t risk being seen with you, you know this,” she says, partly joking, and she hopes Quinn can hear that.

“Mmmm,” she hums, “okay.”

“Are you eating something right now?”

“Yeah, my mom made cookies. Break and bake, but they’re still good.”

“Quinn Fabray, if coach could see you now!”

“You’re the one who said I accomplished something by giving birth. So, I’m rewarding myself, because I sure don’t have anything to show for it.”

Although it was said in a jovial tone, between bites, the statement makes Santana pause with her hand poised. Nail polish drips on the paper towel in her lap as Quinn chews her troubles away.

“Quinn.”

“Mmm?”

She takes a breath, and feels the exhale shake.

“I know, um,” she begins, “that it’s hard right now, and this year probably feels like a failure of a year for you.”

“Santana, if this is you trying to help, it’s not-”

“Just, listen, Fabray,” she stops her. The chewing noises have ceased so Santana knows she has her rapt attention. “Just, you can do better next year than you did this year. I promise you’ll get everything back.”

Quinn sighs through her nose audibly before murmuring, “You can’t promise me that.”

Santana finally hears the sadness, the loss she expected when she picked up her phone. Quinn’s always been a mastermind at hiding things, one of her more enviable traits.

“I can. I promise I’ll help you.”

Quinn is silent on the other line now. No chewing, no angsty sighing. It’s almost worse.

Santana fills the silence with her own words instead, blurting out, “I’m getting a boob job next month. My dad made the appointment today.”

Quinn scoffs, and asks, “Why are you telling me that?”

“This is me helping,” she answers. Quinn is a jumble of unfinished words when Santana hangs up.

Things go exactly as she expected they would, like baiting a cat with a dangling mouse. Sue’s insults are harsh, but true. She might have overdone her enhancement just a tad, but she tries to at least appear half offended because nobody taught her how to sling zingers better than dear old coach. Quinn’s easy to find and even easier to goad into a physical fight.

Blonde ponytail askew, Quinn’s face is screwed up in confusion and residual anger when they’re separated. Santana watches as she takes in the onlookers they’ve attracted, staring her down with faces full of shock, lust, or admiration. Some a mixture of all three. It all dawns on her that once again, she’s the epicenter of McKinley, and Santana can see it play across her face before she turns on her heel into to the crowd.

She never waits for a thank you.

 

V.

 

It’s the first time Quinn has barged into Santana’s room. Given the constantly pending status of their friendship, it’s not a shocking statistic. It does startle Santana into choking on her smoothie.

“Knock much, Q?”

“Sam broke up with me.”

Santana clears her throat and does her best concerned face. Quinn buys it, and throws herself onto Santana’s bed.

She fiddles with a button on her blue sweater as Santana slurps the liquified fruit down.

Finally, she elaborates, “He found out about Finn and I, somehow. I mean I can’t exactly blame him, I guess...and I know I should be sad about it, but all I am is angry, and annoyed that he dumped me.”

“Fuck, Sam,” Santana exclaims. Quinn is visibly taken aback and Santana snorts at the sight. “Who cares, Quinn, you can do so much better than trouty mouth. He was never even in your stratosphere.”

“That’s a big word,” Quinn sneers.

Santana shrugs, and remarks, “Yeah, my lab partner in Environmental Science doesn’t let me cheat off his paper anymore because I won’t blow him.”

Quinn cringes at her crudeness, but Santana ignores it. She saunters over to her bed and plops down on the edge, knee nudging at Quinn’s quaint little dress.

“Listen, Q, I’m gonna lay some shit out for you,” she begins. “Of course you’re mad he kicked your ass to the curb. He’s an imbecile and he bores you, which is why you cheated on him in the first place. You see, you and I, we’re cut from the same impeccable cloth. We’re so much better than anyone else in this town, which is why we can’t commit, not really, not for long.”

Quinn mulls over the idea, before countering, “So I couldn’t commit to Finn or Sam, fine, but why did I want them, why do I still do?”

“Because you, Quinn Fabray, like myself, are hot,” Santana announces, slowly as if she’s explaining calculus. She gestures between them, before explaining, “We have needs. And you, little miss chastity with a crucifix up your ass, have all this pent up lust and need, because lets face it, you’re at your physical prime right now. So, it all gets backed up and eventually just ends up exploding in the form of poor decisions like letting Puck screw you without a condom.”

Quinn doesn’t seem convinced, in fact she looks a little offended.

“I don’t have pent up lust, Santana. I’m not you,” she jeers.

“No?” Santana challenges her, before placing her hands on either side of Quinn’s face and pulling her in for a kiss. Quinn is still as stone at first, but as Santana’s lips brush across hers, she opens up like a flower. Pale hands find their way through dark hair, and Santana’s tongue finds it’s way into Quinn’s mouth. As her hand trails down Quinn’s torso, grazing her chest, she is shocked to feel said body arch into her touch, and hear Quinn mewl into her mouth. Quinn throws herself into her desperate kisses, and has a hand fisting the fabric of Santana’s shirt when she’s gently pushed back.

Santana feels an instant pang of regret at stopping them when she sees Quinn, panting, flushed, and lips red and hanging open, all glossy from her own doing. She’s a vision, straight out of a fantasy, and her expression is shell shocked, but not altogether unhappy. She can’t help but run her thumb over Quinn’s shining lip, before she reminds herself what they were doing in the first place.

Her cheshire cat grin slides into place, and she declares triumphantly, “See? All your pent up lust is right there.”  

Wheels are turning in Quinn’s head, Santana can see as much. Knowing Quinn has always got Jesus on her heels, she’s suddenly terrified that this whole thing will turn into a big gay panic. She attempts to steer them in the right direction.

“Take Brittany for example,” she offers, “I make out with her all the time.”

Quinn refocuses at that nugget of information, looking Santana in the eye, finally.

“You do?” she pipes up. Santana nods, and that seems to assuage the thought processes ailing Quinn.

“You know why? Because I’m bored, just like you are,” she goes on. Quinn listens again, but this time with a curious eye. “Its the truth, and there was one point where I would make out with her and fuck Puck all in the same weekend. The thing is, I’ll never commit to anything because none of these Lima losers are good enough for me, for us.”

She emphasizes her last point and Quinn’s head bobs in understanding. She licks her lips, and Santana fights the urge to continue where they left off.  

Santana grips Quinn’s shoulders, and bows her head to look her dead in the eyes.

“You are Quinn Fabray,” she proclaims, “Go date Finn Hudson. He will make you prom queen, and you can screw over the hobbit. Two birds. One stone. Then get the hell out of this town while you’re on top. Leave everything and everyone behind in a trail of success so suffocating everyone will kill themselves in your wake. Nothing should tie you here. Nothing and no one.”

It’s as if she just stuck Quinn with an epipen full of adrenaline. She stares back at Santana with an intensity that could command an army, if ever given the chance. Quinn shoots forward to leave an abrupt kiss on Santana’s cheek, before she darts out of her room. Santana picks up her smoothie and tries not to smile with pride at what she just unleashed on the world.

 

VI.

 

Santana tosses onto her side for the umpteenth time that night, trying to shake the visuals running circles in her head. Quinn’s pre-teen face in all it’s imperfect glory, plastered on walls and lockers. Quinn’s teen queen face, screwed up in shame and self-loathing, tearing down the hall before anyone can see her cry.

Santana has always known it would come to this one day. It is, or was, a secret so well buried she had swelled with pride when she uncovered it. Know your enemy, and all that.

Now, it had all gone down much better than Santana thought it would. She really doesn’t feel much pity for the blonde. This time, she didn’t even do the manipulating, she somehow still came out on top, without lifting a finger. It’s remarkable. Hats off to the social enigma that is Lucy Quinn Fabray. Yet, the pangs of guilt still prick her gut, that she should have said something. She should have torn down the posters too.

It’s how her fingers find the only Q in her contacts and she wonders why courage tends to come easier at 2 AM on a Wednesday.

“Santana, seriously, you better be dying,” Quinn croaks.

“Funny, that’s why I called; to make sure you weren’t laying on the floor, 12 pills to the wind,” Santana quips. She hears Quinn swallow thickly through the line, and mentally facepalms herself for her lack of tact.

“Considering I really have nothing left to hide, I can tell you that isn’t funny, due to the fact that it was something I was considering at the time,” Quinn purs. She is trying to sound self-satisfied, but shit, it just comes out sad.

Santana can’t think of anything to say except, “Glad I decided to check on you, then.”

“I’m tired,” Quinn states, the rasp in her voice backing up her claim. “So, you can save your delayed reaction insults for tomorrow.”

“Quinn, please, you think I didn’t know all this time?”

It’s enough to keep her on the line. Santana can almost hear her weighing the validity of it.

“I’ve been hoarding it as blackmail, mostly,” Santana further reveals.

Quinn voice breaks the silence, and says softly, “You’re lying.”

“I can bring you the folder I have stuffed in the back of my bookcase, if you want,” Santana counters.

“I’ll just take your word for it,” Quinn caves. They once again fall into quiet, only the steady rhythm of their breathing filling the vacant air. Santana feels like it’s minutes, or possibly hours, before Quinn’s sigh signals she has more to say.

“So, how come you never used it? I mean, I gave you plenty of reasons to,” she queries.   

“I don’t really know,” Santana replies thoughtfully. She takes a beat, before concluding, “I guess it was mostly because you are my only equal in this godforsaken wasteland of morons. If I took you down, who would I have left to meet me punch for punch?”

Quinn’s laugh breaks through like a burst of sunshine streaming through Santana’s window. She grins against her will.

“Your logic never makes any sense, S,” she teases through her sleep-drunk giggles.

“Yeah, well, you were also the closest thing I had to a friend, believe it or not,” she ventures to confess.

“I’d like to hear your definition of ‘friend,’” Quinn shoots back at an alarming speed for this hour. Santana shakes her head against her pillow at the wit constantly ticking in this girl’s head.

“Either way, I never wanted you to feel that shitty, I’m not that ruthless,” she finishes. It is the most she has ever given Quinn, as far as insight into their rivalry. Perhaps in another couple of years, she might get around to giving her a compliment. But lets not get ahead of ourselves, here. She realizes Quinn is speaking again.

“Well, that’s what it felt like to see that girl again. Shitty,” Quinn utters just loud enough for Santana to hear. “Still kind of does. She was hard to shake back then.”

Quinn has her introspective voice on, the one that lets Santana know she’s in the secret garden of her lock-and-key feelings. It’s a rare privilege, one she might deserve if she altered her idea of friendship. She almost holds her breath in an effort not to alarm her, and shove her back out into the cold, to stare up at the impenetrable iron gates once again. She decides to make the most of her time there.

“I’ll tell you something about that girl,” she begins. “She’s not that different from the one I know. She remade herself in spite of everything she had going against her. She was strong, and determined. This new Quinn is too. Thats what I see when I open that folder.”

It’s quiet again, enough that she can hear Quinn’s lips part in a smile. She’s actually quite good at this friendship thing, even if she only gets around to it this ungodly hour.

“You can do better than who you were, Quinn. You already have,” she says, punctuating her point. Her house creaks in the stillness of the early morning hours. Somewhere, a pig with a lenient sense of judgement decides that was close enough to a compliment and sprouts a pair of white feathered wings. She should mark this day on a calendar or something.

“Goodnight, Santana,” Quinn whispers. Her voice floats through Santana’s ear and nestles deep in her brain.

“Night, Lucy Q.”

 

VII.

 

They say Fall is the season of change, but someone forgot to tell Quinn Fabray that the color palette of change is orange, red, and yellow, not cotton candy pink and dollar-store-lipstick fuchsia. She smells like an burnt tire. She looks like a human keychain someone threw in a blender. And sure, the former head cheerleader has done some fucked up shit in her short life, but as far as Santana is concerned, this is her worst offense, and an insult to the legacy of the Cheerios.

She ignores the fact that Quinn’s bare lower back swaying down the halls makes her feel things in her lady parts.

She likes to think that if she had seen this grand transformation in it’s formative stages earlier in the summer, she would have put a stop to it. But who is she kidding. If Quinn wants to barrel down the highway into a 12 car pileup, anyone in the way just gets run over. Best to sit back, grab some popcorn, and enjoy the fireworks. She gave her spiel, and tried not to look at Quinn’s lips when an equally pink tongue darted out to moisten them. That’s about as much effort as she cares to exert, with everything else on her plate at the moment.

She almost drops her fifteen pound duffle on her feet when she opens her bedroom door, and finds the goth pink panther sitting casually on her bedspread. Is she smoking?

“Uh, uh, nope,” she snaps, snatching the cigarette out of Quinn’s hand with little resistance. “Are you trying to set my bed on fire?”

Quinn snickers in that devil-may-care way she’s adopted, and drawls, “That piano was enough for me. Drew too much attention to myself.”

“Yes, because that’s what you don’t want; attention,” Santana snarls. She stands with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, but Quinn remains put. She chews on something invisible and rolls her shoulders back to stare at Santana square in the face.

“Like what you see? Take a picture,” rouses Quinn. Santana rolls her eyes.

“You’re in my room, Quinn. What the fuck do you want?” she exclaims. She strides over to her closet and drags the zipper down her uniform with an exasperated huff. Somehow, without making a sound, Quinn has crossed her room, and the only way Santana knows it, is the pair of fine china white arms snaking around her waist. Before she can process this, a pair of lips graze the shell of her ear.

Hot breath precedes the low whisper, “Is the offer from New York still on the table?”

It exhausts every cell in her body to keep her knees from buckling. After the longest count to three she has ever endured, Santana turns slowly out of Quinn’s embrace.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” she clarifies, surprised at the evenness of her tone. She’s facing Quinn now, who still has a predatory look on her face. She’s thinner, if that is even possible. For a girl with a pool in her backyard, she’s paler than she should be after 3 months of summer. Something died inside of her, and the decay is spreading all over.

Santana realizes she’s staring again, so she gestures limply and tries, “What’s this all about, Quinn.”

“Nothing,” she shrugs.

“You’re a bad liar.”

“Maybe I just don’t care anymore.”

That’s pretty obvious, Santana snorts to herself, but instead pries, “Why don’t you?”

“I dont know. I used to.”

Something still living flickers across her eyes, now the color of dried, crushed leaves.  

“Well, how am I supposed to help you with that, exactly?”

Quinn takes a step forward into the space Santana worked so hard to put between them.

“I’m alone,” she states simply, as if it was her name she had said instead. “Maybe it’s my own doing, I’m not an idiot, but I have nobody.”

Santana doesn’t like where this is going. And yet, she can’t move, her top still unzipped and her eyes trained on the human ashtray in front of her. Quinn takes another step closer, the rubber of her boots coming down heavily on the hardwood.

“My mom started drinking again, because she’s lonely,” Quinn tells her. It’s as if she’s testing the words, the upwards inflections at the end of each statement. Her tongue darts out for a just a second, before she continues, “She looks at me and I can see she blames me. I can see she feels guilty about that, too, but she also knows that if I wasn’t such a fuckup, my dad would still be there.”

The words fall to the floor like a sack of bricks, and Santana doesn’t know how to react except flinch at the impact.

Another step removed from the distance. Santana can see Quinn’s chestnut roots. Somewhere, a snide remark about how if she was going to go Courtney Love on everyone, she could at least put some effort into it. Quinn’s proximity to her is more powerful, and the thought dies on her lips.

“She’s been that way all summer,” Quinn carries on. Her voice quivers for the first time. “And you know what? The more I dressed like this, the less she could stand to look at me. The less she looks at me, the better.”

It’s a small shuffle that is all that’s left to bring their noses a hairs breadth apart. Quinn takes it, right on queue.

“Do you know what Finn said to me when he dumped me? Again?” Quinn’s sultry voice croons. She shouldn’t find it sultry, not after she said all those things that make Santana’s heart feel like it’s on the brink of asphyxiation. Still, it’s Quinn’s lips that are so close to her own, her darkened eyes that are drinking her in. She remembers she was asked a question.

She shakes her head to get her answer, “He asked me if I felt anything anymore.”

She makes a mental note to slap that sack of pus.

“I don’t,” Quinn spits out, “I don’t feel anything at all.” The words barely make it out of her mouth. Had they not been an inch apart, Santana wouldn’t have heard them.

“Quinn…” Santana whispers, but it doesn’t amount to much.

“You want to help me?” Quinn incites her, more than asks her. If Quinn expected an answer, she doesn’t wait for it. Her hands are already at the back of Santana’s neck, and her hips flush against the polyester of her Cheerio skirt. Against her lips, Quinn commands, “Make me feel something.”

Something in Santana snaps, and she launches herself at Quinn, wrenching the blonde into her grasp and crushing her lips with her own. It is more teeth and claws than anything else, but Quinn groans as Santana bites down on her lip. They stumble back towards the bed and by the time knees knock into the mattress, Santana has ripped off Quinn’s poor excuse for a tank top, and Quinn has shoved Santana’s skirt down to her ankles. Their horizontal position allows them to kick and tug nearly everything else off.

It’s a cacophony of guttural noises when Santana’s body slams down onto Quinn, and christ, is it like touching the sun. Quinn’s hips rock up into her and something blooms in her stomach. She’s all of a sudden as desperate as Quinn is, with her nails raking down Santana’s back. It all happens so fast, the final shreds of cloth are gone, her two fingers disappear, and Quinn’s mouth falls open. She has to muffle Quinn’s moans with tongue and clacking teeth. Quinn pulls her so close when she’s on the brink, Santana is afraid she’s going to sink into her bones. A swipe of her thumb, her name hissed her ear, and a bite on her shoulder and then it’s over. Quinn is a mess of limbs and matted hair underneath her when she catches her breath. She’s smiling, and it could be genuine if Santana could see straight.

Santana is modest all of a sudden, and she pulls the blanket over them, even though they’re both radiating heat. They lay parallel, riding on the ripples of what just occurred, when Quinn turns on her side to face her.

She opens her mouth, but Santana shakes her head. Whatever it is Quinn feels compelled to say, she can’t deal with it right now.

“Okay,” Quinn acquiesces with a small nod. Instead, she leans forward and leaves behind a kiss that is so much the polar opposite of what just transpired between them, it sobers her immediately. It is almost tender. Somewhere in the realm of a thank you, if she ventures to look further into it. Quinn doesn’t give her time to.

“Shelby is back,” she throws out there. There it is. The thorn in the lions paw.

Santana scoffs, and says, “Please. She doesn’t stand a chance against you. You’re Beth’s real mom. If you took a shower, and wore a shirt with sleeves, you can do better than Berry Sr.”

Real, crippling self-doubt flashes across Quinn’s face and it might actually be the first time Santana has ever witnessed it. Who would feel good about themselves, after everything Quinn was put through? To have your greatest loss dangled in front of you like this, it’s no reason Quinn is a basket case.

“Go see your daughter, Quinn,” Santana tells her. At the risk of another moment of raw emotion, Santana slips out from under the covers to grab a shirt off the ground. By the time she slips the cotton of some well worn t-shirt over her head, Quinn is fast asleep. Nevermind, it’s 4:30 in the afternoon.

Santana figures she might as well join her, as her muscles will be feeling the combination of a Sue Sylvester workout followed by whatever kind of shit just happened. As her head hits the pillow, she turns to her left and she almost barks out a laugh at the sign of Quinn’s pixie tufts of hair, stark against her black pillowcase. Of all the walks of people to pass through her bed, this is a first.

Santana combs a piece back behind Quinn’s ear, before succumbing to sleep herself.

 

VIII.

 

Santana dozes on that hospital bed, as cramped as it might be with it’s primary inhabitant, all day. She had been awake the night prior, playing musical chairs in the waiting room, gnawing down her immaculate cuticles, and using up all her patience to keep herself and Mrs. Fabray at in one piece. Until, finally, in the wee hours of the morning, some doctor in bloody blue scrubs comes to tell them Quinn is out of surgery, and in ICU.

Mrs. Fabray is permitted to see her, however briefly, before she is sent home with a warm promise of a phone call and a pamphlet with tomorrow’s visiting schedule. Santana bides her time. At the asscrack of dawn when the nurses change their shifts, she slips into Quinn’s room.

They had done a shitty job of cleaning her up. Her face still has smears of blood on the jaw line, and her hair is an atrocity. There are tubes and wires and something ominous going on from her waist down. Acting on some deep rooted magnetism, she pads over to the bed. She somehow contorts herself around all the lifelines Quinn is hooked up to, scoops up her bridesmaid dress, and settles on her side against her arm. Only then does she cry, just as the sun peeks over the Ohio horizon.

She is roused by a gravelly chorus of, “San… San… Santana….”

Blinking in the daylight, Santana is able to attribute the words to one source, and she tilts her squinting eyes up to confirm she’s not still dreaming.

“Q?”

“San, my arm is asleep,” Quinn rasps. Santana shifts slightly to release it, but makes no moves to get off the bed. She stares up at Quinn, who stares up at the ceiling. She’s got that oxygen thing up her nose, and there is tape holding her skin together under her eye.

“How long have you been here?” Quinn asks. There is a hint of mischief there, as if she is curious to know how many rules her friend broke just to be by her side.

“Since last night,” Santana gloats.

“You’re probably not allowed to do that, sneak into ICU,” Quinn scolds her. It comes out weak, with pauses for air she is having trouble holding onto, but Santana is happy to hear some of the old Quinn still rattling around in there.

“I don’t care,” Santana whispers, as if it’s a filthy secret, “And anyway, most of the nurses fear me now, I think.”

Quinn laughs, and then winces, followed by a series of whimpers Santana will never be able to erase from memory.

“Q, what’s going on, where does it hurt?” she cries frantically. She’s sitting up now, with hands hovering, waiting on instructions.

Quinn smiles sadly, and remarks, “Everything hurts.” The way she looks at Santana, she has a feeling this goes deeper than the bruises on her ribs. Santana’s eyes trail down the mess of Quinn, thankfully mostly hidden under a teal hospital gown. They snap back up to Quinn’s face when she muses, “It’s probably some sort of divine punishment for… everything I suppose.”

Santana slides back up to lean on her elbow next to Quinn. She knew Quinn was never that heartless, just damaged in ways nobody else could really understand. It’s a strange sort of creature that spawns from a house without love. Like a flower grown in the dark, or a fish born on land. Somewhere along the line, they had to turn into something else entirely to survive.

“This is a pretty serious smite from God, don’t you think?” Santana plays along.  

“Mmm, I don’t know, it seems pretty fair,” Quinn reasons, “I mean, of my recent acts of sin, I did basically try to steal my daughter back.”

“That’s true, you did,” Santana agrees with a hearty laugh. Quinn swipes pitifully at her arm.

“Don’t laugh, it’s not funny, it’s horrible,” she groans. Santana’s curbs her chuckles and adjusts Quinn’s gown absentmindedly.

“So what if you went a little ‘Hand That Rocks the Cradle,’” she says, “Out of all your schemes, that one was pretty balls to the wall and well thought out, on the front end at least. I, for one, was impressed.”

Her half-sarcastic praise elicits a fond smile from Quinn. It warms her up like hot soup in this bleak fluorescent block of concrete. Santana finds herself transfixed by it.

It’s another seven whole days before Santana reaches out to Quinn again, post-accident. She knows Quinn was released earlier that day, and tries to time it so that she gets her after she’s settled, but before she goes to sleep. She is successful.

“I got some good news from the doctor, by the way,” Quinn informs her.

“What’s that?”

“He said I could be okay, like my legs, I mean. He said I could walk again.”

Santana nearly screams. She bites down on her knuckles instead and grins so widely it hurts.

“Quinn, thats amazing!” she exclaims. She’s just giddy, and it’s a strange sensation considering this news has nothing to do with her.

“Yeah, if I go to physical therapy, I should eventually be good as new,” Quinn goes on to explain.

“Well, shit, lets get started then! When is the first class?”

“It was yesterday, actually.”

“Perfect, how did it go?”

The line is silent for a moment, and then Quinn mumbles, “I didn’t go.”

“What, why?”

Santana tries to reel in the anxious, overbearing, micromanaging that Quinn probably already gets enough of from her mother. It’s no use, she’s Santana Lopez and she calls it like she sees it.

“You know what, I don’t care why. What the fuck, Quinn?” she yells. She feels herself boiling over and she can’t stop it. “You can’t do this. You have a chance to fix everything and you’re just going to pussy out? Fuck, don’t do this to yourself!”

“I know you were joking in the hospital but, maybe I wasn’t,” Quinn fights back, meekly. “Maybe this is it, my punishment for everything I’ve done and how many people I’ve hurt…”

Santana shuts that down immediately.

“Oh, shut up, that’s some bullshit,” she shoots back. She sits up on her bed and swears steam comes out of her nose. “This is not how it ends for Quinn Fabray, some sad little fallen-from-grace pity party rolling around her senior year. You can do better than this. Do better, Quinn.”

Santana barely gets her last few words out through gritted teeth before tears overtake her. She drops her head into her hands, and although Quinn can obviously not see her, her cheeks still burn with embarrassment.

“Santana…”

“You have to make it, Q,” Santana demands, her voice thick with emotion. “Berry can’t be the only one to get out of this fucking town.”

She hears Quinn exhale through her nose, and knows she’s hit a nerve. Good. She’d punch any of the nerves Quinn has left to get this through her thick, golden head.

“Fix your damn legs,” she continues with steadier words, “Go to therapy, and stand on that stage with me at prom so when I beat you, I can beat you face to face.”

She lets the loosely veiled challenge sink in. It’s a sure get, bringing up prom. If there’s one thing they’ve agreed on since they were aware of each other’s existence, its that each will beat out the other for prom queen. That, and that if they could each get away with murdering one person it would be Sue Sylvester. Common enemies work wonders.

“Okay.”

It’s so quiet Santana almost misses it.

“Okay?” she tries, hoping to get a clear affirmation out of Quinn.

“I’ll see you at prom.”

That’s a firm yes.

“Can I go to bed now, or do you have more you want to yell at me about?” Quinn taunts her snidely.

“Get your ass to sleep,” Santana orders. There is a click and she falls back against her pillows, releasing a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding.

 

IX.

 

It’s not an unfamiliar scene to Santana; the bonfire, red cups, the blur of the student body all decked out spirited school colors, milling about in an unspoken roped off section with cheerleaders in identical short skirts and jocks drunk on their own egos. The same rituals of idiocy carry on from High School to College, without a single detail out of place. She straightens her own short skirt as she emerges from a particularly dim enclave in the trees.

Eleanor (or Elaine?) trails behind her, out of breath and smiling stupidly. She’s about to say something, no doubt misguided, so Santana spins on her heel to face her.

“Fix your skirt, I can see your spankies,” she instructs her. She probably shouldn’t have come off that cold, but Elaine shouldn’t think this is anything more than a fuck up against a tree. Which, by the way, is uncomfortable for all parties involved so why is it such a rampant practice below the Mason Dixon line?

The sophomore cheerleader, because whoever said Santana didn’t have ambition is a jealous idiot, hangs back to right her uniform, freeing Santana to hit the keg.

She’s on her fourth cup now, and is halfway through the foam when she feels the urge to call someone. God knows why, but beer makes her nostalgic, after it makes her handsy.

Her phone is easily extracted from her bra, and once the ringing hits her ear, she has already forgotten who she dialed.

“Hello? Santana what the hell is wrong with you?”

She recognizes that smoky voice right away.

“Quiiiiinn, what are you up to this lovely December Friday? Laying on a bearskin rug while Professor Patches reads you his favorite passages from The Iliad?”

The dig tumbles from her mouth like the old, easy habit that it is. The creepy professor is the first thing that comes to mind when she hears that voice, which she hasn’t heard since Thanksgiving. Or seen in text form. Or Facebook form. Or carrier pigeon. She’s not sure why Quinn’s current bedfellow irks her so much. For some reason, of all the shit the blonde threw at her over the piano that day, that one piece of information really rocked her to her core. She hates it. She hates thinking that some pair of wrinkly hands think they can touch Quinn and she hopes it was a bluff to one up her at the time.

“I’m by myself in my dorm, sleeping, if you must know, or I was, at least,” Quinn sneers through the phone.

Santana beams triumphantly, and exclaims a little too loudly, “Good, because you know what, fuck that professor, Q. You can d-”

“Do better, I know,” Quinn finishes for her. It catches Santana off guard and she has to regain her bearings in their conversation. She’s drunker than she had originally thought.

“So why are you sleeping with him still?” she asks. She’s considerably less boisterous but the bitterness is still there.

“I’m not.”

Well shit, this is news. It shouldn’t be. What does she care what Quinn does up in that rich white wasteland and she pouts because had a whole slew of zingers waiting in her arsenal that will now go to waste.

“Are you drunk?” Quinn asks.

“I might be,” she slurs back. She hopes it’s what she said. Who knows how many of those words made it.

Quinn sighs, and goes on, “Yeah, anyway, he’s been texting me since I got back from Thanksgiving. I just don’t have any interest anymore, I guess.”

Santana’s not sure what sparked this outpour of information from Quinn, especially after she already admitted she wasn’t totally coherent. Still, she leans her head against a tree trunk and lets Quinn’s sleep-addled words wash over her.

“I guess you were right,” Quinn says slyly, “You always have been.”

“Jesus, are you drunk?” Santana scoffs.

Quinn laughs and it’s a hearty, drowsy hum that warms Santana far better than the 6 foot fire crackling away behind her. If she could bottle the sound for rainy days or lonely corners at frat parties, she would. An unfamiliar sort of quiet settles in, the serious kind. Santana almost sees what’s coming next, but the alcohol makes it fuzzy and she can’t make it out.

“Why is it that you always say I can do better, but you never tell me what is actually good enough?” Quinn prys. Santana swallows. “What’s good enough for me, Santana?”

The crackle of fresh wood piled onto the embers bursts their bubble. Santana suddenly can’t be here. She has to go, now.

“I have to go,” she stutters, before hitting the glowing red button to end the call.

She thought getting Quinn out of her ear would help, but the question still swirls in her brain, until she drowns it with two more beers, and that’s the last she remembers.

 

X.

 

Santana knew neither the room nor the time nor who’s idea it was the night she stumbled behind Quinn through a doorway on Valentine’s Day. She was instantly thrown against a wall by a barrage of sticky kisses all aimed at her mouth, but with a fifty percent success rate. The rest landed on her cheek and neck and soon, hands wove around her back and up her shoulders, and she had never known Quinn was so forward in the bedroom.

Her own hands steadied Quinn’s face, and she planted an open mouth kiss on her, the likes of she was sure Quinn had never received. As she pushed the jacket to the floor, and reached the zipper, Quinn pulled back rather suddenly. Santana’s eyes slowly opened and Quinn was worrying her lip, her drive suddenly faltering.

“I-I know I’m not Brittany,” she states, and Santana wasn’t sure if it was the booze or something else that made her voice quiver. “But, I’m blonde at least. You can pretend.”

Santana hadn’t seen that coming. On one hand, it had been a nice thought from a friend, but she knew the root of it. It was all kinds of not okay. Her hands found Quinn’s cheeks again, and she shook her head.

“Don’t for a second think that this has anything to do with Brittany,” she uttered, her stern tone wanting to make this very clear.  

Quinn had seen something, something she was looking for particularly, and nodded, and kissed her again and again. She had stripped herself down in the dim light of the table lamps and had given herself entirely to Santana. Hours or days had passed, according to Santana, with Quinn’s skin on her skin endlessly. The sweet sounds of her gasps and cries of her name filled the room and fogged Santana’s mind.

Quinn was glorious, bending for her, molding under Santana’s fingertips like clay.

She shocked both Santana and herself, probably, with her own contributions, and how easy she found herself between Santana’s legs.

When they couldn’t move anymore, Quinn was a tousled mess on the bed with hair strewn across Santana’s chest. She had slid off of her and onto the pillows, but had put less than an inch between them. Her dewy eyes fought off sleep just enough to kiss Santana one more time before succumbing.

Santana had remained awake for a bit longer. As she laid with their legs tangled, she threaded Quinn’s blonde hair through her fingers and thought about Quinn’s initial words.

She didn’t lie to make Quinn feel better. It hadn’t been about Brittany.

Being with Quinn was in a whole other world entirely. Even the first time, however long ago it had been, had been like taking her first drink of water after eighteen years in the desert.

It was difficult to compare to anything, a class of it’s own.

There in that hotel bed was where Santana considered for the first time that maybe it was never about finding blondes to replace Brittany in her life. Maybe, Brittany was the replacement.

In the darkest, quietest regions of her mind, the notion dawned on Santana that maybe, Brittany had always been a placeholder for another flaxen ponytail that had always been out of her reach.

The very one she, by some grace of god, was laying naked with after hours of exploring every inch of her forbidden body.

By the time daylight illuminated the situation, Santana was gone. She did linger, longer than she should’ve dared. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Quinn, one arm around her waist, making a home for herself in the crook of Santana’s neck. It was a visual out of one of her most repressed dreams.

Still, she left.

She pulled the blanket up over Quinn’s bare skin.

She tugged the curtains closed.

The tactile memory of all of it, the sheets, the sweat layering her skin, the hot breath on her ear, wakes her in the dead of night. She’s exactly where she should be. She’s beneath her sheets, behind her curtain, the only warm body in this bed. The dream is now only a wisp of smoke, slipping quietly out of her mind amidst the soft hum of the metropolitan night.

Santana is barely conscious when her phone buzzes. She grabs for it blindly, and pauses at the name on the screen.

Quinn.

She almost doesn’t answer, but it would only haunt her more.

“Quinn?” she answers.

“Hey, San,” she greets her. Santana can hear the smile clear as dawn. “Sorry, I… I don’t know, I haven’t heard from you a while.”

She’s shit for not calling her. She didn’t say anything at all about any of it. The wedding, the hotel room, the fact that she’s human garbage for leaving Quinn there all alone to sort through this when she woke.

“So you call me at 2 in the morning?”

“I mean, you’re up.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she offers shamefully. It’s hardly a speck of the apology Quinn deserves. “I’ve been all over the place lately.”

Trying to get my life together. Waking up in the middle of the night thinking of you. Writing text messages I never send like some sort of prime time angsty teen trash. To name a few things.

“Me too,” Quinn pipes up, with a self-conscious laugh.

“Why are you up, Quinn?” Santana inquires. Quinn’s on the brink of something, and she’s anxious to get to it. It’s making Santana anxious by proxy.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Fuck. Santana’s heart swells and cracks and all she knows is this is not good. She tries to say something to dam what’s rushing right at her, but Quinn keeps going.

“About you, Santana,” she emphasizes. “You make me feel like I’m the most precious thing in the world to you. No one has ever made me feel that way.”

She is. She means so much to Santana, too much.

“I don’t even care that you left, I-I know you felt it and it scared you,” Quinn carried on.  

No, no, no, Quinn, you should care, Santana screamed in her head. If Quinn cares that all of this will be easier. It’ll be a passing phase, a bar story, or an joke in a best man speech.

“Santana talk to me, please. I need to see you again,” Quinn pleads, and it’s too much for Santana.

“Quinn, no, okay?” she declines after a hard swallow.

“Why?” Quinn is quick to challenge. “It’s been weeks now, and you haven’t called or texted or anything and I’m going crazy over here. More than usual.” Quinn’s joke is ill timed, and Santana wishes she could laugh and throw a retort, but her heart is so heavy. She feels like she’s sinking through the floor.

“Exactly,” Santana reasons, “I treated you like shit after, you don’t want me.”

“I do, Santana,” she cries, and it’s there that she breaks. Her voice reveals the tears probably dribbling down her cheeks. “Fuck, if I’ve ever wanted anyone more in my life it’s you. Don’t push me away, please! I lo-”

“No, Quinn!” Santana barks. “I’ll fuck it up, okay? I’ll fuck up this, and you, and I can’t live with myself if I let that happen. You’re so… you’re the most spectacular person I know and I can’t hurt you.”

“So, don’t,” Quinn begs her.

“I will. I already have.”

She swipes at her chin, wiping the fallen tears. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She wasn’t supposed to break the only person she ever tried to keep safe, from all of it, herself included.

She has to do this. Quinn will move on. She’ll rule the world from some law firm or multi-million dollar conglomerate. She’ll marry someone as bright and shining as she is, and have a perfect family. She will have survived all of it, and Santana will glow with pride. Brittany will let her fault, and innocently forgive her. She’ll expect nothing and Santana will still fail her, but it’ll somehow be fine. Brittany doesn’t know enough to see any of the guilt, the regret, the cowardice. She’ll always be grateful for that.

“S,” Quinn breaths to try and bring her back, and it’s all Santana needs to hear, to know she’s doing the right thing. That sweet, perfect voice that is too beautiful for this world. It was hers once, for one night, it held her name in those lungs, and that’ll have to be enough.

“I love you, but you can do better than me, Quinn,” she manages to get out. Her voice is guttural, quivering on the edge, but she knows Quinn heard her.

She hangs up first, and curls into the tightest ball she can manage, as the echo of her sobs sing her to sleep.


End file.
